Silver Bracelet 07: What Does He See When He Looks
by Brandon
Summary: In which a question is answered.


TITLE: What Does He See When He Looks at Me? (1/1)   
SPOILER WARNING: Pilot   
RATING: R   
CONTENT WARNING: Sexual content   
CLASSIFICATION: VRA; MSR   
SUMMARY: Scully's thoughts as she prepares for New Year's Eve. A Silver Bracelet story.   
NOTE: This is part of an ongoing series, and will make little sense if you have not read the others. Previous entries are: Transfiguration; As I Knew He Would; Faith and Acceptance; Reconciliation; Decompression and Relativity; and Dark Midnight of the Soul. All are available on my web site: http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html   
Also: Now that the Season 6 premiere has aired, we know with certainty that this is an alternate universe. Assume that the timeline diverges sometime after FTF, but before The Beginning.   


What Does He See When He Looks at Me? 

by Brandon D. Ray 

What does he see when he looks at me? 

I have often wondered that, but now more than ever before the question burns within me. 

What does he see when he looks at me? 

I have often caught him looking at me, of course. In the early days of our association, I assumed that he was like any other man, and that when he looked at me he saw only breasts and a vagina, two tits and a cunt. A walking pleasure center, provided for his stimulation and gratification, and not to be taken seriously. 

I look at those words I just wrote, and I am amazed at the cynicism and bitterness of my younger self. And I remember that even then, even as I thought those things, a part of me deep down inside knew that it was a lie. As long ago as that first case in Oregon, I had all the evidence I would ever need to know that Fox Mulder was not an ordinary man, in this as in so many other ways. 

When I dropped my robe in front of him that night, and stood before him dressed only in my sensible underwear, I did not know what to expect. I knew that I was taking a terrible risk; I knew that most men would view this as a clear invitation to take liberties. But I was so afraid in that moment, and he was the only one available who might take my fears seriously, and I could not stop myself. And perhaps, deep down inside, a small part of me already knew that it was safe. 

Perhaps. 

I think back on that moment, and I remember the fear. I remember the tremor I heard in my own voice, and I remember thinking, Maybe I'm not cut out for field work after all.>> I remember him crouching behind me, holding the candle close to me so that he could examine the three small lumps on my lower back. I remember the soft, delicate touch of his fingers as he probed at the lumps, and I remember my amazement and relief as I realized that his touch was not awkward and intrusive, but was as professional and impersonal as that of a doctor performing a physical. 

And I remember the pleased relief in his voice when he made his pronouncement: Mosquito bites. 

That should have been the end of it, but it was not. I shrugged my robe back on, and without even stopping to think I turned and almost threw myself into his arms. It was the first time -- but far from the last -- that one of us sought comfort in the other's embrace. The hug was brief, over in a matter of seconds, but it seemed to go on for years. In my mind, he is still hugging me, comforting me, trying to keep away the darkness with his love, and I am doing the same for him. 

I spent the rest of that night in his room, enthralled. My new co-worker was not who I had expected him to be, and I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to know everything. And somehow he sensed this, and even more amazingly, he decided to let me into his mind. He gave me a guided tour, stripping himself emotionally bare, just as I had stripped myself physically bare. 

That was the night that our partnership truly began, no matter what the official records may reflect. 

That was the night when I learned that I could trust him not just with my virtue, but with my dignity. 

It has taken another five years for me to learn that I can trust him with my heart. I know that I should regret how long it took, that I should resent every single minute of the delay, but I cannot. Our love affair had to proceed at its own pace, and now the reality of it is all the sweeter for the fact that it has been a long time building. 

What does he see when he looks at me? 

That one question still remains, floating in my mind. I have long ago discarded all the trite, conventional answers, leaving me only with the certainty that whatever it is that he sees, it is good. 

I stand before the full-length mirror in my bedroom, fresh from the shower, completely naked, and I try to look at myself through his eyes, but it is useless. He is the profiler; he is the one with such empathy and compassion that he can literally put himself into someone else's head. I have never wished for that ability in the past; I have seen too often how much it hurts him. But now I desire nothing more than to be able to slide gently into his mind and look out at myself through his eyes. 

I know that he thinks I am beautiful; that much is obvious on his face and in his eyes. It was obvious even before this week, on those occasions when I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking. And now, of course, he is completely open and naked in his appreciation and desire for me. Yet he has never spoken the words. He has never said, "You are beautiful." 

I wonder if he realizes how much I need to hear those words? I wonder if he knows how insecure I am about my appearance, how intimidated I am by the women in his videos and in those magazines? Surely he must know, he must understand -- he is, after all, a profiler, and he knows me better than anyone else. He knows me far better than he knew Monte Propps, or any of the other countless, haunted men he has tracked and triangulated and finally brought to justice. But if he knows my desire, my need to hear him say that, then why hasn't he said it? 

Could it be that he is afraid? 

The thought strikes me from nowhere, and I turn it over carefully in my mind. Fox Mulder, afraid? I shake my head. The very idea seems incredible. He is so brave, so courageous, that it is almost impossible to believe that he could be afraid of speaking a few simple words -- words which he surely already knows that I yearn to hear. Words that I cannot possibly ask him to say, but which must come unbidden from his lips if they are to have any meaning for me at all. 

He has already said, "I love you." How can he be afraid of this? 

Yet it is the only explanation I can think of, and I decide that I will simply have to wait until he can find the courage to tell me what I already know, but want desperately to hear him say. 

I glance at the clock on my bureau, and realize that time is growing short. Mulder will be here in less than half an hour to take me to dinner, to take me dancing, and then at long, long last, to take me to bed. Truth be told, I would willingly skip the dinner and the dancing, but he asked me to allow him to have control tonight, and I could not refuse. I have given so much to this man, and I would willingly give him so much more. 

Tonight I will give him my soul. He already has my heart. 

I quickly pull on a pair of plain cotton briefs, then turn to my closet, and draw out the dress which I bought this afternoon. It has been a long time since I tried to dress for a man, for a particular man, but I am certain that this choice is a good one. It is forest green, conservative and elegant. It has long sleeves, a skirt that reaches to mid-calf, and a high neckline, and it fits me so well that it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The sales clerk tried to persuade me to buy something more overtly revealing (and much more expensive), but this is right, this is me, this is us. This is the dress I want to wear on the night we are to become lovers. 

I slide the dress on over my head, and it slips into place as if it had been made just for me. I am not wearing a bra, and I feel a blaze of desire as the cloth of the dress brushes against my breasts. I turn and look at myself once again in the mirror, and I feel a warm tingle in my stomach as I realize that I am looking at a woman in love. The sparkle in my eyes, the slight smile on my lips, the happy shine highlighting my cheeks...all the little signs that can mean only one thing. 

Only a week ago I would have been horrified to see myself looking like this. Only a week ago, I was sure that my life was over, at least in this respect. Only a week ago, I felt old and used up, and I had resigned myself to finding such pleasure and contentment as I could in my work and in my hobbies. Only a week ago, I had persuaded myself that I could be happy without this man in my life. 

Only a week ago. 

I shake my head, dismissing the thoughts. One thing my life with Mulder has taught me is not to dwell too much on the past, but to live in the present and hope for the future. 

I take the silver bracelet he gave me off of the bureau and slide it onto my wrist, then slip my feet into the shoes I bought to go with the dress. My costume is complete. I will wear no pantyhose tonight; they would only slow us down when the time finally comes. This afternoon I considered buying stockings and a garter belt, but decided at last that it was too much too soon. Tonight will be serious and profound. There will be plenty of other opportunities to play. 

Now it is time, and as the second hand on my bedroom clock touches the twelve, I hear his knock on the door. I wonder how long he has been standing outside my door, waiting for it to be time, and I smile a small, possessive smile as I emerge from my bedroom and walk down the hall to the living room. Out of habit, I look briefly through the peephole, and of course it is him, it is Mulder, looking beautiful and nervous and very much like a man in love. 

I unlock the door and step back three paces, wanting to evoke the maximum effect from his first look at my wonderful new dress. Once I am sure I am ready, I call out, "It's open. Come on in." 

The door swings open, and Mulder steps across the threshold. He raises his eyes to look at me, and starts to speak, and then stops dead in his tracks. 

A timeless interval passes as he stands in the doorway, staring at me, and I take the opportunity to stare right back at him, letting my eyes rake over his body, drinking in his masculine beauty, and I realize that he has dressed for me, just as I have dressed for him: Dark suit, snow-white dress shirt, and shoes that look as if they have been spit-shined. And of course, the inevitable necktie, with Marvin the Martian chasing Bugs Bunny across a fanciful Martian landscape. I have never told him that this has always been my favorite of all his garish ties, but somehow he knew anyway. 

For a moment I am tempted just to drag him down onto the carpet and consummate our love then and there, and I even know that he would let me do it. Let me? From the look in his eyes at the moment, I suspect he would beat me to the floor. But that is not the agenda for tonight, and so with a supreme effort of will I resist the urge, and simply stand before him waiting for him to take the lead. 

Finally, he clears his throat. I am shocked to see tears forming in his eyes, and suddenly I realize that even if I can't get into his head and look out through his eyes, I can at least see myself reflected in them. "God, Scully," he says, still apparently unable to take his eyes off of me. "God...you're so beautiful." 

Now I am the one who is crying, and suddenly the three feet of open space between us is totally unacceptable, and I move swiftly forward into his arms to continue the embrace that we began so many years ago in Oregon. 

My last question has been answered.   
  


Fini   


[Go to the next Silver Bracelet story][1]

   [1]: Consummation.html



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